


Ode to Nicolo (and His Terrible, No-Good, Humiliating Praise Kink)

by incurableromancer



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Frottage, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, M/M, Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Romance, Smut, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28990998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incurableromancer/pseuds/incurableromancer
Summary: That’s what struck him most of all. How obscene, how embarrassing a thing it was to be affected by, relative to all of his prior knowledge and experience. He didn’t think it was normal, was the thing, and that was the worst feeling of all, like he was depraved, somehow, and he had to find this out about himself when his tentative travelling companion went and said something nice to him, something that made his dick hard faster than he could process what the words even meant.Or: Nicky has a thing for being praised, and Joe has always loved to spoil him.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 44
Kudos: 591





	Ode to Nicolo (and His Terrible, No-Good, Humiliating Praise Kink)

**Author's Note:**

> @raedear on tumblr had some things to say about nicky's praise kink, and i was compelled to write this.

The very first time, Nicolo remembers being completely caught off guard by the flash of arousal, demanding and undeniable.

He’d never in his life been so completely blindsided by something stirring him, as it were. It was searing hot like the midday Baghdad sun he and Yusuf were trying so hard to hide away from, lazing about in their rented room. Nicolo was far from chaste, but he wasn’t particularly outlandish in his preferences, either. That’s what struck him most of all. How obscene, how _embarrassing_ a thing it was to be affected by, relative to all of his prior knowledge and experience. He didn’t think it was normal, was the thing, and that was the worst feeling of all, like he was depraved, somehow, and he had to find this out about himself when his tentative travelling companion went and said something nice to him, something that made his dick hard faster than he could process what the words even meant.

The suffocating haze of the heat had both he and Yusuf snappish. Their camaraderie was still new. It was too easy to fall back into the bitter, sarcastic back and forth of their earliest days, to make good on the fact of their most fluent shared language being the vulgarities, insults and obscenities of sailors and merchants.

Everything was so difficult with this man and all of his _emotions_. He was stuffed full of them, constantly overflowing, whether anger or happiness or fear or soulful contemplation, and Nicolo was exhausted, his own guilt a constant thrum under whatever other feelings he managed to muster. Travelling together seemed their best and smartest option, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with them, why they couldn’t die. Nicolo was grateful, sure, and on the good days he found that he liked Yusuf rather a lot, and he was so deeply relieved not to be left alone. Still, whether it was their upbringings, or cultural differences, perhaps the different ways they were coping with the absurdity not being able to die, or if Nicolo just happened to be the grumpiest asshole from all of Genoa and Yusuf just happened to be the most chipper man from the whole of the Maghreb, it often felt as though they were clashing, meant to be at odds, never to be friends.

Worse, Nicolo found the guilt only growing with each inch Yusuf gave him, every new show of trust. And so it was almost a relief, sometimes, to return to the earliest anger. It felt familiar, at least. Safer than Yusuf’s warm smiles that made his heart pound and his mind go blank, pleasantries and jokes that he found it so much more difficult to return, finding himself fumbling and awkward, longing only for his words to come as easily as Yusuf’s did.

That day, Nicolo had stomped down to the entrance of the inn and found his petulant anger dried up the second he set his eyes on the entryway and thought about how _hot_ it would be outside. Any steam he might have blown off would be instantly replaced with sticky sweat that would only sour his mood further. So instead he ambled up to the inn keeper and traded several coins for a pitcher of water and a tray of pomegranates. He considered for a moment standing in the corridor and chugging down the water by himself out of spite, to return with the empty pitcher, but shame prickled over him at the thought alone. He would not be greedy, not with Yusuf. Not when he was trying so hard to make a friend of him and so often found himself coming up short, not when he already had enough guilt, enough things he was right to be ashamed of, that he would regret for the rest of his life. He wasn’t about to add to his tab.

He made his way back to the room and found Yusuf leaning over the windowsill in the exact same place he’d left him after their passive aggressive exchange that morning. He did not so much as look up at Nicolo, no words of greeting spared.

He looked tired. Or, no, that was not quite it. He looked _ill._ Nicolo squared his shoulders then, the shame growing large and out of control like a child realizing that they have done something wrong, not because the world is big and incomprehensible and unfair, but because they knowingly made a choice that hurt somebody else.

(Something about a shellfish allergy, they will discover many centuries later, too severe to be rendered inconsequential by their healing and yet not quite bad enough to lend itself to quick deaths, but rather, drawn out illnesses. Years of Yusuf accepting seafood from Nicolo, a meaningful gift of a meal, reminiscent of his childhood favorites growing up in Genoa, and Nicolo getting his feelings hurt when Yusuf would get tetchy. The whole pattern will seem obvious with hindsight, but it didn’t that morning, not after Nicolo presented the finest batch of shrimp he could spy at the market and Yusuf had acted as though he were eating horse shit while forcing it down.)

Nicolo thought then that perhaps there _was_ something wrong with the portion he’d served Yusuf after all, with the way he looked pale and weak, breaths carefully measured as he basked in the breeze on his face. Nicolo couldn’t even find it within himself to be petty for show, instead striding forward and presenting his spoils humbly.

Yusuf blinked up at him, not lifting his head at first. Watched Nicolo place the pitcher and the fruit on the windowsill before decisively fetching a glass for Yusuf, pouring it full to the brim.

“Drink, you.” He didn’t allow himself to feel shame at his dodgy Arabic, determined to make a gesture, even though Greek would have been clearer and easier for them both. He held the cup out slowly, entirely prepared to hold Yusuf’s head and tip it to his lips. They had done it for each other in the past, while healing from the more trying deaths.

Yusuf blinked up at him some more, smiling slow and mysterious, and Nicolo didn’t know what to do with that look. He insisted, “feel better after drink. Please.”

Yusuf straightened a little, reaching out his warm hand to skim it gently over the bone of Nicolo’s wrist, gave his hand a firm squeeze before taking the glass for himself, and bringing it to his lips. After a slow drink to wet them, seemingly oblivious to Nicolo’s racing pulse, holding Nicolo’s gaze, he whispered in Ligurian, “thank you, Nicolo. You’re sweet. A good boy.”

Nicolo hastily grabbed a pomegranate and set about tearing into it then, in a desperate attempt not to have to deal with the stab of heat in his belly, his flushing cheeks. To pretend it was the cloying burn of the sun that reddened his skin, and not hearing Yusuf say _that_ to him while smiling, so earnest and kind, his eyes warm.

Surely Yusuf hadn’t meant to say quite that. He’d meant something less intimate, somehow, and Nicolo should have stuck to Greek after all.

The reason he still remembers it to this day is because he replayed that memory dozens, hundreds, probably _thousands_ of times in his head over the following weeks, poking and prodding and examining, trying to explain to himself why he’d reacted that way to a few kind, probably confused-in-translation words from a man he’d been working very hard to make a friend of.

It took a shameful moment of stolen privacy while washing, tugging his water-slick fingers over himself in the wetness of the river, to shudder in pleasure at the thought of Yusuf saying such things to him, low in his ear, touching his hand, his chest, between his legs, to imagine the warm press of his firm chest and his strong arms, to think of the thicker, darker hair that dusts Yusuf’s chest and thighs, how his beard might feel against Nicolo’s lips and neck. To moan low and needy, cock drooling each time it peaked out from his tight fist, the hot, sensitive skin flushed dark, pulsing, and to finally spill over the memory of _“good boy,”_ thinking about Yusuf’s slender fingers, that sweet voice whispering in his ear, just for him.

For him to panic afterwards, ashamed of himself in every possible way, and to force the entire ordeal out of his mind for years to come.

(He also remembers to this day the astounding, earth-shattering quality of that orgasm compared to other furtive moments of pleasure he’d stolen by touching himself in the dark of night before that day, or the years he’d spent desperately trying to make things feel good and right with women.)

(And when he and Yusuf eventually took the leap, he would need a moment to catch his breath afterward, basking in the afterglow, and wonder how he ever thought what he’d been doing before was pleasurable.)

(Yusuf had meant exactly what he’d said.)

*

So, maybe he didn’t quite so successfully push the ordeal out of his mind. Because the thing is, Nicolo is fundamentally a nice person, and that’s not him being cocky, or having a crisis of morality, trying desperately to cast himself in a good light. He’s just always been mindful and kind, the _nice_ boy from the orphanage who would help chop wood, or keep an eye on your kids, or make a delivery for you if needed. Who would help repair a roof or a fence. It was the only real bit of identity he had before the priesthood, and the only one he still carried with him after. The sort of person to think of the simple needs of others the same way he thinks of those of himself. Somebody who enjoys showing his care and affection through his actions. Easily cooking for the whole of the company he keeps, taking others’ laundry along with his own to the river, fetching things or cleaning or offering a hand where needed. It’s not a selfish thing. It’s just how he's wired. Where he can help out, make the days of others just a little brighter, it’s no skin off his back to offer up a little time and energy.

But nobody has _ever_ reacted to his tendencies as Yusuf does, always making physical contact in some gentle way, making sure to look him in the eyes and say some sweet, praising thing like it is at once inherently deserved and like it means nothing at all, like it doesn’t make Nicolo turn pink and forget how to act like a normal person. It’s terrible, and humiliating, and Nicolo can’t stop torturing himself by going out of his way to do things for him and greedily basking in those little praises.

He will stay up a little bit later than normal to sew up some tears in Yusuf’s clothes, and when Yusuf later finds his things in good repair, he’ll seek Nicolo out just to squeeze his shoulder and tell him how much he appreciates it.

He will pass over the larger half of the tangerine for a treat after supper, and Yusuf will squeeze his hand, sticky with the fruit’s juice, and tell him he’s just as sweet. Most often these little exchanges happen over food, because Nicolo knew what it was to go truly hungry as a child, and again in the years of war, and he can’t ever take the larger portion for himself anymore, not with Yusuf, not without feeling sick and selfish. _Love_ to him is keeping his people well fed, and if he can do so with food that is not only sustaining but also _tasty,_ all the better. Though, there have been times after a bad death or a sleepless night or a particularly long day when Yusuf would hit him upside the head with a rolled up parchment until he took the extra piece of bread or bit of fruit for himself, because _“you need to take care of yourself too, Nicolo. It’s inconsiderate to make people who care about you watch you put everybody else’s needs above your own,”_ and that left him stunned, hesitantly biting into the last piece of toasted bread he’d been trying to offer up while Yusuf glared at him, watching to make sure he finished it. Made him feel squirmy and hot, at the idea that Yusuf cared about him like that. Maybe he’d never thought before of anyone noticing _his own_ cheeks growing gaunt, or to be upset at the idea of _Nicolo_ not having the things he needs. Maybe it made him feel warm in a way he never had before.

And the thing was, the guilt eventually settled, as it had to, in order to move on and set about putting some good in the world for better reasons. For the good of other people, rather than for the selfish purpose of atonement. He knew that he had Yusuf’s complete forgiveness, his trust and friendship, not because Yusuf was too kind, but because Nicolo had _earned_ them. He was no longer a blind weapon of corrupted faith, but now just a man trying his best to be and do good. He _was_ somebody Yusuf could trust and be friends with, because he worked damn hard to be, and Yusuf _knew_ that, before Nicolo himself did, even.

Still, he would quickly come to realize that he wasn’t good enough for Yusuf the same way he wasn’t good enough for the people he’d crushed on growing up, the people he never worked up the courage to try to hold hands with or offer the sweet, vibrant flowers he liked to gather bunches of to. The same way he wasn’t good enough for the families who would never adopt him, a quiet, chubby boy, and then suddenly too old, too knobbly and skinny to be thought a good investment in a working coastal town where there were too many mouths to feed. Yusuf was bright and funny and sweet and _smart,_ a gifted artist, and Nicolo was just only quiet and polite. He liked to learn and to laugh, but he was only an eager devotee, and Yusuf was a mastermind, the scholar and the artist, the teller of the stories and the jokes that Nicolo would eat up, silently admiring from the edge of the circle at which Yusuf was centred. Nicolo had always been meant to be alone, and Yusuf was meant to be with people who shone as bright as he did.

Nicolo knew he didn't shine bright enough for Yusuf, with or without considering their unfortunate shared history on the battlefield. Yusuf was too _good_ for him, too handsome, too funny. Still, Nicolo would selfishly cherish any and all of the affection Yusuf gave him until the day he finally died for good.

He didn’t know if it hurt more to think that he was the only person who would be able to provide true companionship to Yusuf through this strange immortality while also knowing he was not good enough for him, or to realize that he was selfishly _relieved_ that he would never have to watch Yusuf settle down and love anyone else. Because he was too kind and romantic to offer his heart to somebody he couldn’t grow old with, never slipping off with anyone for more than a night, and never cultivating anything with anyone that was exciting enough to tell Nicolo about.

*

They start sleeping close because it is _cold_ at night when they travel way out in the desert, and their thin blankets are more effective if they’re double layered over two bodies for insulation.

It’s barely dark, and they’re tucked close into a mountain’s ledge, hidden away just enough that they’ve decided to forgo any sort of watch, to both try to get some much needed sleep.

Yusuf’s exhausted, clearly. Doesn’t even act hesitant or unwilling to cuddle close as they’ve been doing theatrically with teasing grins ever since they started sleeping this way weeks ago, on a night when they might have lost their teeth to all the chattering, otherwise. He just wriggles as close as he can get like an overeager puppy, curling his arms tight around Nicolo’s middle, nosing against his neck.

The part that really makes Nicolo’s heart flutter is the oh-so gentle way Yusuf’s hand always finds itself curled over the curve of his belly, perfectly fitted and cozy over the layers of his clothes. He’d thought it was an unintentional thing that happens in sleep, but it’s the last deliberate move exhausted-Yusuf makes in his process of eagerly settling down, even patting gently over the slight curve, almost affectionately, before his fingers finally relax.

Nicolo is going to lose his mind. “If you are finding this work travelling and defending caravans to be too tiring, maybe we could settle somewhere for awhile. I don’t think anybody would notice anything about us if we stayed only a few months, or even a few years. Not unless we were strung up and killed in front of the town square, which seems unlikely.” He makes the suggestion mostly because that gentle hand curved against his belly is testing his sanity, and he needs desperately not to get attached to sleeping in Yusuf’s arms. Surely the cozy practice will end as soon as they have a warm place to sleep at night. The best thing he can do for himself is help that process along, get them out of the desert. It also pulls at him that Yusuf, an artist and a scholar, is letting his talents go to waste out here, when he could find work in a city in a moment, even if Nicolo would have a little more trouble. “It might even help the women find us, if they are looking. If we were to stay in one place, I mean.”

Yusuf yawns, snuggling closer. His voice comes out deep and drenched in sleep, and the hand is nothing compared to what he _says_ in that delicious, achingly intimate voice _._ “You're so smart, Nicolo. Mm, nice and warm and comfy. ‘M half-asleep. Can you tell me again in the morning?”

“Of course. Sweet dreams.” He hopes desperately that Yusuf can’t feel his heart thudding.

“Hmm.” Yusuf sighs, and something that might just be a kiss is pressed to Nicolo’s skin. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

Yusuf is snoring moments later. Nicolo lies awake a long, long time, ears burning, tummy flipping, wondering if he imagined the entire conversation, the brush against the nape of his neck.

(He’s never been kissed there before.)

*

Things finally took a turn after a run-in with a thief that left Yusuf with a stab wound to the shoulder, sore even after it had healed. Nicolo had shyly come up behind him, washing the last of the blood off in the river, and offered to massage the stiffness out.

“if it’s not better by now, it needs a little help. We are still only men, no matter how quickly we heal. Please, allow me.“

Yusuf moaned low and satisfied as soon as Nicolo’s long, thick fingers got to work on his sore muscles, and Nicolo realized his tactical error, that Yusuf was far too verbal to make this an easy favour to bestow on him. He watched Yusuf’s ribs expand with the deep breath he took, felt the warmth of him under his hands, the firmness of his muscles, eyes tracing hungrily over the freckles spanning his skin that he’d never seen so close before, watched Yusuf’s head fall forward and down, relaxing into Nicolo’s touches.

“You are a treasure, Nicolo. That feels _so good_. _You_ are so good- _uuuunff_ , just there, that’s it, like that, _yeeees._ ”

Nicolo felt the familiar beginnings of panic _and_ arousal, unwilling to pull away and leave Yusuf with his aching shoulder and equally unable to stop the flood of pleasure at his words, the tingling down his spine, listening to the _noises_ he was making, the knowledge that he could so easily take the half step forward to press himself against Yusuf’s backside, reach around and _touch,_ really touch.

But of course, he couldn’t do that. Yusuf was not his to touch, and he suddenly was filled with shame at taking pleasure in his words that Yusuf obviously didn’t intend.

He whispered, pleading, “please don’t say such things to me.”

His voice must have conveyed his heartache, because though the expression on Yusuf’s face when he peered over his shoulder looked like he wanted to laugh, he didn’t, and the look quickly gave way to something like concern or pity. Nicolo just couldn’t take it. His gaze fell down to the water, and he pulled his hands self-consciously away from Yusuf’s back and held them close to his chest.

And, of course Yusuf wanted to laugh. Nicolo’s face burned with his shame, because of course he’d been obvious the whole time, of course Yusuf knew how he craved those words, knew all about Nicolo’s one-sided devotion no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

He tried to take a stumbling step back, feet slipping over the smooth stones at the bottom of the river, only to be caught by Yusuf’s hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him back and causing him to trip forward into him with an _oof_ , mind going blank, heart pounding with the sudden curl of Yusuf’s arms around his waist to steady him, to find them chest to chest, Yusuf’s eyes dark, his pink lips just barely parted.

They were _both_ hard.

“My sweet Nicolo,” Yusuf said, cupping his blushing cheek. Nicolo instinctively ducked his head, trembling hand sliding over Yusuf’s firm chest. “Why shouldn’t I say such things? You like to hear them, yes?”

Nicolo shivered, and perhaps thinking it from the chill of being in the water as night began to fall, Yusuf pulled him even closer.

Nicolo went boneless as Yusuf cupped the back of his neck, pressing their hips together, eyeing his lips.

“I- yes, I like to hear them.” Nicolo didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry, but a sound rather like a whimper came out as Yusuf slotted their thighs together, began to suck and lick the water from his neck. “Too much. You don’t understand. This is- I can’t do this, not with you, not just for pleasure. Please, Yusuf, you can’t say these things to me if you don’t mean them. It’s not fair.”

Yusuf’s head came up so fast it made him a little dizzy, his earnest eyes blazing.

“You think I do not mean them?” He looked distraught, and Nicolo could only blink, another pathetic sound coming out when Yusuf put a little bit of space between their lower halves. “I have meant every word, Nicolo. Beloved. Tell me you know that.”

Nicolo gasped, dizzy, and swayed forward. Tried to lean in for a kiss, overcome, but Yusuf caught his face between his hands, pressed their foreheads together.

“Hold on.” He brushed Nicolo’s damp hair back from his face. “I thought we hadn’t done this yet because you were not ready to be with a man, perhaps, or that you still had reservations because of how we met, how unfathomable this whole existence is. That maybe you just weren’t here yet. Tell me you did not truly think this desire was one-sided?”

Nicolo shuddered, every instance of _what if_ and _maybe,_ every late night dissection of small moments and looks and smiles shared between him and Yusuf slotting into place in his mind, every bit of wishful thinking he’d allowed himself to fantasize as something more, then, thinking perhaps he wasn’t fantasizing at all, and all of this warring against the conviction that this couldn’t be happening, because surely Yusuf couldn’t want _him?_

His conflict must have shown on his face, his uncertainty, his pain, because Yusuf hauled him closer.

“How could you not know,” Yusuf pleaded, “that my heart beats for you? It is obvious, is it not? It’s you and me, Nicolo. We who can not die, and who do not age. We who can love each other like no one else can. You, who sets me ablaze and makes me dizzy with my love, and- if it isn’t the same for you, maybe the heartbreak will finally be enough to strike me dead for good, Nicolo, fuck. I thought myself obvious. I thought I was making it clear that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, nothing I wouldn’t give you, nothing I wouldn’t say to make you smile. I thought- Nicolo. My sweet, kind Nicolo. You need me to say it clearly for you, yes? You hold my heart in your hands.”

Yusuf looked ready to cry, whispering his name again at the sound that ripped itself from his throat. Nicolo was in love with the way the sunset painted him in oranges and golds, glimmering in the reflection of the wetness in his eyes.

“I have been a fool,” he whispered, once he managed to get the ache of tears in his own throat under control enough to speak, cupping Yusuf’s neck with a trembling hand, feeling the softness of his curls, touching greedily, the way he had imagined so many times. “Forgive me. God, Yusuf- love me. As I love you.”

Yusuf made a wounded noise, bringing him close again and finally, _finally_ kissing his lips, curious and warm. He took two fistfuls of Nicolo’s ass, then, grinding against him with purpose, and Nicolo thought his knees might give out.

“A beautiful, tantalizing fool,” Yusuf gasped, panting against his neck. “A tease. I can’t believe this. Here I was thinking you were not ready, that you didn’t want this yet, when really you, my good, sweet boy- oh, that’s it, hm? _Good boy?_ Look at you, fuck -you have had everything all backwards in your pretty little head for- fuck, Nicolo, how long?”

Nicolo rutted desperately against him, the press of Yusuf’s hand, biting his shoulder to try and keep the more embarrassing noises in. It was an important conversation, and he had every intention of telling Yusuf every detail of his own stupidity, but right then there were more _pressing_ matters.

He hurriedly reached down and batted Yusuf’s hand out of the way, because he didn’t want this to be over just yet, and it was going to be if Yusuf said one more word with a hand around him. He hadn’t even gotten to touch Yusuf yet, and that just wouldn’t do.

To his brief dismay and enduring glee, it took only a few slick strokes to bring Yusuf off, his fingertips sliding unintentionally but firmly over a dark nipple, and then those brown eyes were rolling back and falling shut, head tipped back, and he was pulsing out his release, fucking himself forward into Nicolo’s fist, deep, breathy groan stroking Nicolo’s cock the same way a feathery touch would.

Nicolo didn’t know that he had ever blushed so hard, pride and aching arousal and wonderment all swirling together in his tummy.

“Fuck,” Yusuf whispered, and then Nicolo found himself spun around and held close to Yusuf’s panting chest, yowling with the sudden grip of a confident hand around his cock. “Next time, my sweet, beautiful Nicolo,” he purred, and Nicolo was already arching up into him, chasing his own release, “we will draw this out more, and I will have you crying and humping the bed while I tell you just how perfect and good you are for me.”

Half of that promise got lost in the whirl of Nicolo’s orgasm, heady and explosive, his body singing with it before melting back into Yusuf’s arms, tipping his head back and hungrily chasing his kisses, greedy, drunk on the idea that Yusuf _was_ his to touch after all.

Yusuf made good on it anyway.

*

So, they both know now exactly what it is.

Nicolo eagerly finds opportunities to do little things for Yusuf like he always has, because Yusuf deserves good things and Nicolo has the power to give them to him. But it would be a lie to say he isn’t thrilled at the idea of being able to earn himself some special attention by spoiling him a bit. The knowing look in Yusuf’s eye when he takes him in his arms after he does something for him, brings him a hot drink or bakes the bread he likes special or rubs his shoulders. Yusuf kisses him and touches the back of his neck and his hands and his cheek, whispers in his ear, and he knows exactly what it does for Nicolo.

But it can be simple and chaste, too, quickly becoming just another well worn aspect of a tied and true relationship, woven into every facet. Nicolo will come home with a haul of bread and cheese from the market, will quickly hold up the wedge to Yusuf to show him that it’s the salty kind that he likes, will tell him that he got it for a good deal because he bartered just the way Yusuf taught him, before he makes to store everything away and move on to the day’s work with the animals they keep in the barn. And Yusuf will take a moment away from the papers he’s pouring over to smile up at him, fire off a quick, “Wonderful, Nico. My good boy,” already turning back to his work, while Nicolo’s tummy squirms with pleasure, takes a moment to enjoy the feeling before he gets on with his day.

He has learned too that it’s even better when they’re already in bed. Particularly, he has found, to find himself pinned down with Yusuf’s lips to his ear, rutting against him and whispering all about how he’s good, and sweet, and beautiful, so good for him. To be cooed at and coaxed, talked through his orgasm. Increasingly filthy things that he would be ashamed to hear in daylight, in anything but privacy, in the safety of Yusuf’s arms, his favorite place in the world.

And, in the same vein as their friendship, he has realized something important about all of this, about Yusuf’s love for him. That he _isn’t_ undeserving, and Yusuf _isn’t_ too good for him, but perhaps exactly right for him, his match, perhaps was made for him. That Yusuf loves him because of who he is, and that if ever he were to stop working at it, to stop caring, to become the person he assumes he is in his head, made to be alone, Yusuf _wouldn’t_ love him. But Yusuf _does_ love him, because he _is_ good enough for him, works hard every day to love him how he deserves. Yusuf loves to tell him how much he is loved in return, and if anything, it would be an insult to _him_ to believe or insist otherwise. 

Still, he wonders one night if it isn’t a little selfish of him, to let Yusuf shower him in praises and sweet words.

_(“Don’t be silly, Nicolo. You are the kindest person I’ve ever met. You deserve to be praised. It makes me feel good too, to make sure you know how special you are to me, and to this world. It’s the same as you with all the things you do to show me how you feel, isn’t it?”_

_Nicolo hums, tracing his fingers through Yusuf’s chest hair. He murmurs, muffled into his neck, “I guess so. I just want to do this right. I want to love you right.”_

_Yusuf’s arms came tight around him, and he felt a lingering kiss pressed to his head._

_“And you do, my sweet Nicolo. I don’t want you to ever worry about that. Besides, have you ever met anybody else who likes to run their mouth as much as I do?”_

_“Yusuf!” Nicolo interrupted, lifting his head. Yusuf was smiling, eyes light, joking. They went soft when he could see Nicolo’s face again, and he didn’t even want to think about the state of his bedhead, even as Yusuf carded gentle fingers through it, looking completely besotted. “You are a poet! Do not belittle yourself as somebody who only runs their mouth, my love. Even in jest, I can’t have that.”_

_Yusuf waved his hand, smiling, pleased. “Still- I like to talk. Especially about beautiful things, yes? If you did not allow me to whisper in your ear and pleasure you as we both enjoy, we would be dirt poor. I would have to spend all of our earnings on paper and ink to write down my Ode to Nicolo, just to get my feelings out. Come to think of it, I might do that anyway. It would be good for you to have it all on paper for when I am not here to tell you how much I adore you.”)_

*

Yusuf is lounging on a pile of pillows, legs splayed wide, back against the wall, basking in the last of the afternoon sun like a cat. Nicolo has been bustling all around him in a tizzy, restless. Sweeping and dusting and trying to make himself busy. Yusuf’s eyes are following him around the room like a child watches its mother, rapt, taking in every detail.

“What’s wrong?”

Nicolo huffs, smacking the broom repeatedly into the corner where the two adjacent walls meet the floor, feeling an itch down his spine as though he knows it’s not quite clean enough. He’s certain he hasn’t passed this corner yet, but no dirt or dust comes loose. “Nothing is wrong. I just- it feels like there is so much to do.”

Yusuf keeps watching, eyebrows drawing together.

“That’s right. Nothing is wrong, and you _know_ nothing is wrong, or dirty, or out of place, because you and I work very hard to make sure nothing is. But you stress yourself out, and then at the end of a productive week when we’re on top of everything and you should be relaxing, you always think something needs cleaning, or fixing, or cooking. I swept the entire place out while you were working this morning, my love. I assure you that you will find no more dirt or dust.”

Nicolo stops in his tracks and spins around, momentarily incensed.

“Why didn’t you tell me that when I got the broom out?”

Yusuf tuts, reaching his arms out to him. “Come here.”

Nicolo leans the broom against the wall and goes to him. Allows Yusuf to pull him down into his lap.

“You need to _relax,”_ Yusuf tells him, hugging him close and swaying them lightly from side to side. “You work too hard, sweetheart. You need to unwind a little. Unless something else is the matter. You’d tell me if that was the case, yes?”

Nicolo sighs, shoulders sagging. Presses close, inhales deep, comforted with a nose full of pomegranates and soap and _Yusuf._

“Of course I would, Yusuf. You’re right, as usual. I suppose I’m just stressed.”

He sighs again, Yusuf’s sure hands rubbing over his shoulders.

“We can do something about that, then. Tell me you’re done for the day, please?” Yusuf’s voice dips down low and quiet, “and that you’ll let me take care of you?”

Nicolo squirms.

“Take care of me how?”

Yusuf only hums, petting over his back, nosing into his neck. The gentle motion of his chest expanding pressed so close is comforting like nothing else. Just being in his arms, breathing with him, Nicolo feels the tension begin to melt away.

“I’m done for the day,” he mumbles, forcing himself not to fret over the store of firewood in the kitchen that really could do with some reorganizing.

Yusuf squeezes him tight. “Good boy.”

Nicolo inhales, deep and quick. Feels the rumble of Yusuf’s chuckle.

“My good, sweet boy,” he repeats, pressing kisses to Nicolo’s jaw, “finally letting me have some quality time with you. I miss you when you’re faraway in your head, worrying about things, you know.” His hands are everywhere, and Nicolo feels a stab of upset, pulling back and looking into his eyes, concern and worry jolting through him.

“You need only say the word and I’ll drop everything. You know that.”

Yusuf cups his cheeks, shaking his head, smile gentle.

“I know, my love. I didn’t mean anything by it, except that keeping a house and barn and market stall is busy work, and some days I really would like to keep you in bed, all to myself. But then our goats would be neglected, and the house would fall into disrepair, and they’d laugh us out of the market when we finally showed up with bedhead, hours after opening. Just for tonight, let me take your mind off of things, please? Let me have you to myself. And then tomorrow you can do as much grumpy sweeping as you like.”

Nicolo snorts, rubbing his nose against Yusuf’s. Feels light and in love, incredibly lucky to have a real home with Yusuf, even just for awhile.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s go to bed.” Nicolo squirms, flushed beneath his clothes. Wants them _off,_ wants as close to Yusuf as he can get.

Yusuf just keeps petting, touches going light and feathery, just his fingertips tracing ticklish patterns over Nicolo’s skin.

“Later, definitely. I would like to have you properly. But I think we’re comfortable here for now, my love. The sun is so nice and warm.”

Nicolo whines, rubbing his nose against Yusuf’s cheek. The spread of his thighs over Yusuf’s lap feels too deliberate now, with the way his cock is fattening up underneath his clothes. There’s no way this isn’t on purpose, Yusuf kissing below his ear, holding him so close, touching him so teasingly, saying such sweet things to him.

“But- Yusuf- I need, _hnnng_ ,” Nicolo shudders, back arching, clever fingers tickling down his ribs, the sides of his belly.

Yusuf runs warm, firm hands flat down his sides to soothe him, and says, “you need what, sweetheart? Friction?” He rubs his palm over the small of Nicolo’s back, and Nicolo gasps, expecting to be pulled forward, hauled in by his ass so they can rut against each other, but Yusuf doesn’t do anything more than touch his back. And so when his hips jump forward and instead of the momentum helping get him closer, instead he just finds himself rocking his erection down into Yusuf’s thigh, he feels his entire face flush red, and helplessly stares at Yusuf. Who moans, soft and sudden, thumbing Nicolo’s lower lip and brushing his pointer finger under his eye, sparkling with frustrated tears. Brushes gently through his eyelashes when he closes them, overwhelmed.

Yusuf whispers, “You’re a smart boy. You can figure this out.”

Nicolo whines, squirming. Tilts his head when Yusuf’s lips tickle over his neck, jumping again when he suddenly _bites_. A strangled whine forces itself out of his throat when he finds that the press of Yusuf’s thigh once again sends delicious heat licking through him. Yusuf runs his hands down the tops of his thighs as if to encourage him, and. Well.

Hesitantly, he rocks himself back and forth, feels the tips of his ears turning pink. Yusuf hums, one hand creeping again to the small of his back and pressing forward, encouraging. Keeps kissing his neck.

Nicolo shivers, thighs clenching, and presses his face into Yusuf’s shoulder, embarrassed. His knees slip through the nest of pillows, against the floor, toes curling, tummy clenching and hips jerking with the sensations, too rough through all the layers of clothes, too good and intense to stop, like scratching an itch. “Is- _uunnh,_ is this- am I- good?” The heat in his face feels like it’s burning, and he cries out, soft and deep, can’t help it, trying to burrow away and hide in Yusuf’s neck.

That hadn’t quite been what he wanted to ask, is the thing. Had rather intended _am I okay here_ or _is that what you want me to do?_ He hadn’t meant to show that he’s so desperate for the praise, for permission, for Yusuf to tell him it’s okay to enjoy this. Curls his fingers in the back of Yusuf’s shirt now, grinding down in tight circles, each drag of his cock feeling dangerously like teetering over the edge, half-ashamed and half-drunk on pleasure. 

“Oh, baby,” Yusuf coos at him, curls a possessive hand over the back of his head, pets through his hair and cups his neck. “You’re perfect for me. Doing so good.”

Nicolo gasps, the fabric between them rustling like a whispered obscenity with the quickened pace of his hips. His arms loop around Yusuf’s neck, blushing face completely hidden away. Yusuf’s arms come around his back in return, petting him and hugging him close.

“You’re okay. I have you. Feeling so good, baby, aren’t you? Let it all go, my love. My sweet Nicolo. You don’t even know what you do to me, my darling. How much it turns me on to see you lost in pleasure, desperate to get off.”

“Mmf,” Nicolo whines, helpless. “ah- _ooh,”_ he cries, realizes that it’s even better if he grinds forward just a little with the momentum of rocking down, longer, deeper, slower grinds.

“That’s it, Nico.” Yusuf sounds breathless, rubbing over the back of his neck, over the rucked up material of his shirt. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“ _Yes,_ Yusuf. Please.”

“Please what, sweetheart?” Yusuf’s lips brush his ear, and he sobs. “Do you want a kiss, like this?” He brushes a feathery smattering of kisses to Nicolo’s neck, “or a touch, my love?” His hand sneaks down to Nicolo’s ass, fingers digging into his flexing muscles, and Nicolo’s back arches. “Or do you want to come, Nicolo? Is that it?”

Nicolo’s throbbing, tears leaking out of his eyes. “Yes, Yusuf, please. I want to come, _please_ -”

Yusuf laughs low and deep, and Nicolo is _so_ close, feels a little like an animal, with the force of his rocking, whimpers into Yusuf’s neck.

“I’m only teasing, my love. You’re doing so good for me, being such a good boy. If you need to come, sweetheart, you can. I know you want to. So close, aren’t you? Feeling so good? You just _love_ being so good for me, putting on a show, don’t you? You like that just watching you rut against my thigh gets me so hard, you love having my attention while you pleasure yourself like an irresistible, needy little thing. Love to be spoiled and petted like the good boy you are-”

Nicolo gasps, back arching, cock twitching, and fists a hand in Yusuf’s hair when he starts to spill. Soft _oohs_ and _mmms_ keep passing his lips, low and without his own permission, rubbing himself wild and rough against Yusuf until it starts to taper off, and he stills with a final squeeze of his thighs around Yusuf’s, panting.

Yusuf’s shifting underneath him, fingers of one hand still pulling through the back of his hair. Nicolo pulls back just a little, sniffling, peers at Yusuf’s face.

Finds his pupils blown huge, eyes dark, lips parted. Presses their foreheads together, listens to Yusuf make a low noise in his throat, realizes that the shifting is him touching himself. Giggles a little, syrupy and dazed, kisses him just before reaching down and replacing Yusuf’s hand with his own, just to feel him gasp against his mouth, moan low and needy, lips gone slack as Nicolo kisses him, teases him with a much slower touch.

“Bed, now?” He asks, pointedly rubbing his thumb over the wet tip of Yusuf’s cock.

Yusuf squeezes him tight just for a moment, shuddering, before patting his ass and quickly ushering him up, hastily fixing his clothes enough to walk to the next room.

“Yes, sweetheart. Bed now.”

*

With time, learning how to love and take care of your person the way that they need you to is a necessary skill. And as it turns out, while Yusuf takes ample advantage of being able to get Nicolo’s dick hard with nothing more than a few careful words, he also knows when those words can heal like nothing else.

The day has been tense and quiet. They slept apart by choice the night before for the first time in years, and it’s terrifying to Nicolo how the loss of this man who once was his sworn enemy renders him utterly lost. He once believed he was in hell, for long months after his first death, and yet the fear prickling his spine now that Yusuf could decide to part from him, to realize Nicolo isn’t deserving of his forgiveness and his love after all- it’s worse than the conviction of condemnation ever was, lonelier, more heartbreaking.

His anger had dissipated before he’d even managed to drift off into a fitful sleep the night before, and truly, objectively, it was a small, petty, silly argument. But they had both been tired and they had the fight right before dinner. Nicolo is only a little bit chagrinned to admit that his own anger came mostly from the fact that he was _hungry,_ and he imagines an empty stomach hadn’t helped Yusuf’s mood, either.

Today he is only upset, waiting for Yusuf to come back to him so that they can straighten things out. He’s found himself in the kitchen, making a stew. Chopping and stirring and mixing and tasting, adjusting to work towards Yusuf’s preferred level of spice, because he isn’t above trying to lure him back from the barn where he’s holed up with his sketchbook using the tasty scent of a favorite food as bait. If his own presence isn’t enough, he thinks, somewhat bitter but mostly very sad, at least he has never known Yusuf to resist a hot meal at the end of a long day.

The sun has begun to set, the stew simmering just right when at last, the door creaks.

To his embarrassment and frustration, Nicolo feels himself flush hot, all of the day’s worries compounding him at once and sending tears springing to his eyes, and suddenly he wants Yusuf to go back to the barn, to hide from the possibility that this confrontation might not end with kisses and hugs.

So even with the shuffling of Yusuf’s boots across the floor, he doesn’t turn around. He keeps stirring the pot, blinking away the blur from his eyes.

Then Yusuf’s arms come around his middle, and he melts like April frost in the morning sun, leaning back into his embrace.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to forgive me yet, but can we start leaving our arguments outside of the bed?” Yusuf’s hand presses firm and flat over Nicolo’s tummy, nose pressing against the back of his neck, just how they sleep every night, every night except _last_ night, when Yusuf slept out in the barn with the goats instead of in bed with his Nicolo. He presses close and sways them just a little, and the spoon slips out of Nicolo’s fingers. “It’s not worth sleeping apart. We’ll both just be exhausted when it’s time to make up, and that’s silly of us, because we’re babies when we’re tired. I bet we’d have made up already if we woke up together this morning.”

Nicolo sniffles, spinning around and tucking himself close to Yusuf’s chest, hugging him close.

“Oh, hey,” Yusuf hugs him just as tight, stroking over his hair. “I have you. No need for tears, Nicolo, we’re alright. I promise. My sweet Nicolo. I’m sorry.”

Nicolo sniffs. “I’m sorry too. I made stew.”

Yusuf laughs, warm and sweet. The way his chest rumbles and his arms curl tighter makes Nicolo want never to let go, but he hasn’t seen his love’s smile in days, and that just won’t do.

He pulls back far enough to see the crinkles by Yusuf’s eyes, the affection in his eyes he’d irrationally feared would be gone. The soft curl of his lips. Hears the soft tutting sound he makes, reaches up to brush Nicolo’s tears away.

“Of course you did. My love. My kind, thoughtful love.” He pushes their foreheads together, even as Nicolo tries to duck his head. “My sweetheart. You’re so good to me.”

Nicolo pulls in a shuddery breath. Feels himself going giddy and kittenish, wanting to be done with the day and drag Yusuf off to bed, even though they should probably talk about it. _After_ they eat.

“I- it’s, you haven’t eaten all day. I thought- you should eat.”

Yusuf hums, gives him a teasing kiss, barely there, nothing more than a brush of their lips just to watch the way Nicolo needy opens up for him, huffs out a sigh when Yusuf’s lips veer off to the side instead.

“Mm, it’s true, I haven’t. And I haven’t told you I love you today, either. That’s more important to me, though your stew smells delicious. I love you. You’re wonderful, and too kind to me. I should be begging for your forgiveness, and you’ve made my favorite supper. You’re an angel.”

“Yusuf,” Nicolo breaths, cheeks blazing, fingers twisting into his linen shirt.

“Nicolo,” Yusuf whispers back at him, holding him close. “I love you. We’ll eat, and we’ll talk, and we’ll go to bed, and you’ll let me spoil you with attention to make up for leaving you alone last night, yes?”

Nicolo’s breath hitches, and he nods, all the words sticking in his throat.

They hold each other for long moments before they make it to the stew.

*

For many, many years, it was simply not safe to own up to being men who slept together, let alone who loved each other. Their immortal affliction kept them from getting too close to others, or going out of their way to earn the trust of those like them, to put down roots.

And so, when they met Andromache and Noriko, who they already knew from their dreams were like them in that they were two _women_ who laid together and loved each other, Nicolo was entirely unprepared for the notion that Yusuf might enjoy showing him off. Nicolo himself found it immensely gratifying to talk to others about Yusuf’s intelligence and artistic skills, to advocate and recommend him for jobs that would make use of his talents. Even more so, he liked the way Yusuf smiled and ducked his head and hovered close when he did it in his presence, how he knew he’d have Yusuf’s hands on him if they were alone, that he would as soon as they went back home. Still, it never would have occurred to him to speak _romantically_ about Yusuf in front of others, no matter how well they knew them, even if they could be trusted.

They were sitting around the fire, Andromache and Noriko huddled close on one side, he and Yusuf on the other. It was cold, and so it was largely a practical arrangement, but being able to take Yusuf’s hands and warm them between his own while the women looked on knowingly, were aware of the love in the gesture, made his heart pound.

It had been quiet for awhile, everyone still sniffing each other out. And Yusuf, Nicolo’s charming, verbose Yusuf, was of course the one to break the silence.

“So, you both have seen us in your dreams as we have seen you, yes?”

“That’s right,” Andromache said, sharing a smile with Noriko. “We couldn’t believe how long it took you two to get your shit together. You _are_ together now, aren’t you? Or is it just sex?” Her inquisitive eyes landed on Nicolo, then, and his mouth was half-hanging open, unused to talking about such things, especially with women.

“We’re together,” Yusuf chirped at her, having no such hesitation, grinning and squeezing his arms around Nicolo. “This man is the love of my life. The most handsome,” he boasted, kissing Nicolo’s dimpled, flushed cheek, “the most kind, the most capable. I think I’m the luckiest man in the world to have him. Isn’t he cute? Look how he blushes!”

Nicolo was indeed blushing, red to the tips of his ears. He couldn’t recall anybody ever _bragging_ about him like this before, not even for something he’d done or made, but just for who he is, and though the night was cold and the fire small, he felt allover warm, deeply touched. Yusuf’s eyes were sparkling, smile going soft and familiar when he turned it on Nicolo, squeezed Nicolo’s hand back when he grasped Yusuf’s fingers tight.

“He’s just adorable,” Noriko agreed, smile warm and fond. “You both are. Now tell us how you finally got together, and then maybe we can persuade Andromache to tell you about the many adventures of her long life. She’s older than me by well over a thousand years, you know.”

“A thousand years,” Nicolo would exclaim later, tucked into Yusuf’s arms. “Can you imagine living that long? I can’t, surely.”

Yusuf hummed, thoughtful. “I can’t either. But I’ll be lucky indeed to love you for a thousand years and more.”

Nicolo turned over in his arms, overcome with the need for a kiss. “You incurable romantic.”

*

Penetrative sex took them decades to get right, for no particular reason. It wasn’t as though either of them came with a wealth of knowledge about what men do in bed together, though they both certainly had _enough_. When they explored, attention tended to be centred on more obvious parts and acts. It took a conversation with Andromache and Noriko and lots of blushing on both of their parts, the gift of a special vile of oil and clear instructions, reassurance that the two of them had taken men in their bed before and knew for sure that it would be worth it, insistence that even though they claimed to be satisfied (Noriko was giggling as she said this, and Nicolo had never been so flustered) they were missing out.

Turns out, they were right.

Yusuf volunteered to take Nicolo inside, and though the first few times were fumbling, a little awkward, it was an incredibly intimate, pleasurable experience, once they got going. The tight, wet press of being inside Yusuf, being able to be so close to him had felt _so good_ , he came very close to embarrassing himself before they even got a chance to really experiment. 

After a handful more times, after watching Yusuf tremble and shout on his fingers and cock, and even finish, crying out, with barely more than a touch, Nicolo decided he wanted to take Yusuf inside.

By the fifteenth century, he learned that the most satisfying, pleasurable orgasms for him came from being fucked slow and close in he and Yusuf’s bed, having his hair pulled and filthy words whispered in his ear.

By the eighteenth, he liked best to be teased and denied and for Joseph to talk him to nearly unbearable, explosive, untouched orgasms.

And by the twentieth, he had circled back to preferring to be inside of Joe, to hear him babble and cry out and plead and praise while getting fucked.

*

They only have a minute, hidden away in the washroom. They’re supposed to be getting ready for bed.

Nicky’s arms are braced against the sink, Joe with one around his waist and his other hand stripping Nicky’s cock like his life depends on it.

They have to be quiet. Nicky’s eyes are closed, and Joe’s teasing his lips against his ear, nibbling and cooing so, so softly, listening to Nicky’s breath hitch as his thighs tremble.

He finally finishes with a choked off grunt, somewhat frustrated, trying to thrust up into Joe’s touch in a way that the cramped space just doesn’t allow for.

It wasn’t their best, but it was _something_ to tide them over for another stretch of sleeping holed up in a tiny room with Andrea and Sebastien. The new one is having a harder time adjusting, and they are not inclined to make it harder for him, not when his wife and sons are all he can think of, the family and love he has lost. He already has a hard enough time looking Nicky in the eye, apparently too close in age and appearance to his sons, without the added element of having to see in Joe and Nicky’s love what he is still mourning. Besides, the gay thing is new to him too, and if they fuck in front of him so soon, they just might break his brain.

Joe hurriedly wipes up the mess, before Nicky pulls him into a searing kiss. He impatiently takes Nicky’s hand to guide it to his underwear, but Nicky does him one better and drops to his knees.

“I love you,” Joe breathes, head tipping back against the wall, “ _fuck,_ I-”

“Quiet,” Nicky reminds him, yanking his underwear down. He gives Joe a stern, hungry look before sucking him down, all business.

Joe’s back arches, wound tight after so long without anything, any kind of attention on his dick. He rescinds his former thought about this not being their best, because Nicky’s _mouth_ , fuck-

There’s a pounding on the door, and Nicky jumps, pulls back with a cruel, wet noise. Joe’s toes curl against the floor.

“I don’t care how long it’s been, your time is up. You don’t need to have sex more than I need to piss.”

It’s Andrea, and Joe is biting his fist in frustration, petting Nicky’s hair, who has flopped his forehead over against Joe’s thigh. The pounding comes again, and they unfreeze, tucking Joe back into his underwear, hurriedly pulling on clothes.

Nicky catches him for half a second before they open the door.

“I’m sorry, Yusuf.” He kisses him just once, sucking and filthy, a promise. His eyes are as solemn and serious as they are on any battlefield, cheeks still faintly pink with the post-orgasm glow, and Joe loves him. “I will make it up to you.”

Then they’re shuffling out and into the bedroom, Andrea grinning at them wide and wicked, making a rude gesture that Joe returns before laughing and slamming the door.

Sebastien is sorting through all of their clothes, bagging up the ones that are too mangled and bloody to be saved, setting aside the ones that just need a little bit of repair, and neatly folding the rest. Joe hesitates a moment, hopeful to be acknowledged and to offer a cheerful goodnight, but Sebastien doesn’t look up.

Nicky squeezes his shoulder and pulls him towards the bed.

Goodnights between them are easily spoken through snuggling close, twined fingers and kisses to backs of necks, silent and sweet. Sometimes, though, Joe still likes to talk, just because he can. His mouth is conveniently close to Nicky’s ear, and so even here, holed up with Andrea and the grumpy Frenchman, the words are for him alone.

“I love you, Nicolo. Light of my life. You’re so beautiful. Mm. And warm. I would still consider myself the luckiest man on earth just to hold you in my arms like this each night for the rest of our lives, even if we could never have another moment of privacy. ‘M so lucky to have you. Sweet dreams, my sweet Nicolo. I love you so much.”

Nicky squirms against him, pressing closer. Sucks in a breath, and kisses the back of his hand before pressing it to the warmth of his cheek.

*

Nicky is never sure if he’s dreaming or not, for the first few moments whenever he and Joe are lucky enough to wake up in a comfortable bed, completely and truly alone.

 _Warm_ is always the first thing he thinks, cosy and safe with strong arms curled around his waist, gentle nose pressed against his neck, tucked up underneath the blankets so that the delicious heat pooling and crashing like waves between his legs could be a secret, if he wanted. If he hasn’t been squirming in his sleep. If Joe isn’t already awake.

But a gasp leaves his lips at the gentle _scratch-tickle_ of Joe’s beard against his skin, feather light, parted lips brushing over his shoulder, pressing kisses to the soft conjuncture of his shoulder and neck.

“You always smell so good here,” Joe rasps, pressing in closer, and it’s like all the pleasure coiling tight and hot in Nicky’s belly unspools, and he shudders from head to toe.

Joe’s palm slides gently underneath his shirt, fingers dancing playfully, lazily up his belly and chest. Smooths over his skin, familiar and comforting, before veering off to the side to flick lightly at his nipple.

Nicky breathes out something like a whine, presses his hips back firmly against Joe.

Who lets out a soft, sleepy grunt, unintentional, at the unexpected friction. A sound that makes Nicky press his lips together and makes his thighs clench. Then Joe inhales sharply, indulges for a moment in grasping Nicky’s hip and grinding against him with intent, nibbles at his ear the way he likes to when he’s buried his cock in Nicky’s ass and Nicky is acting shy, hiding his face in the pillows as he whines and rocks his hips back for more.

“Good boy, Nico. Just like this.”

Makes Nicky want to slip his fingers down and touch himself, loves the feeling of being surrounded, of Joe finding arousal and pleasure against his body. But he doesn’t. Curls his fingers over Joe’s hand instead, stretches his neck out so Joe can kiss him there, pant against him as he ruts against his backside, Nicky rolling his hips back to meet him.

“So good for me, baby. _Fuck,_ ” Joe stiffens, suddenly tilting his hips away, and the knowledge that he’s so close already has Nicky keening, peering over his shoulder, wants to see him.

Joe kisses him just once, teasing, guides him onto his back, thighs parting to splay wide on muscle memory alone, heat crawling up his neck as Joe brushes their noses together, watches Nicky lick his lips and lift his chin in a silent _please_ as Joe makes the first featherlight stroke _up and down_ over the tent of Nicky’s cock in his underwear, hard and straining.

Joe’s lips part with it, eyes going dark and hungry underneath the sweet, sleepy haze. Likes to watch how Nicky’s throat bobs and his pupils dilate, how he slowly begins to turn pink, lips chasing Joe’s as he bites and licks them red and shiny, but never makes the connection himself, leaving just enough space for their breath to tease each other.

Only when the first shudder passes through Nicky’s body, when his eyes slip shut and his head begins to tilt back does Joe kiss him properly. They’re languid, wet kisses that make Nicky’s tummy clench with the anticipation for the heady, pulsing, wet mess that his briefs are going to become as Joe draws this out, plays Nicky’s body like an instrument as long as he likes, with unhurried, gentle pleasure that builds and builds until Nicky can’t think.

Nicky can rock his hips up into this if he wants it faster, he knows. Joe would only chuckle and kiss his neck, keep his hand slow and steady as it rubs over his underwear, for Nicky to force more friction out of, if he wanted. Nicky doesn’t, just yet. Just shivers and takes it, soft touches that send tingles racing up his spine, will get him flushed and leaking all the same, the wet spot sneaking up on him the same way Joe’s gentle grinding against his thigh will, just to take the edge off.

Joe whispers, “I had a dream about you, baby. You were waiting for me to come fuck you, touching yourself, so pretty for me.”

Nicky gasps, can’t help it, ruts up into Joe’s hand. Licks his lips, lets his head fall back so Joe can kiss his neck between his words, give him beard burn.

“You were so desperate, sweetheart. So hard, just like this, hm? Feels good, doesn’t it? And I bet you’d like to come for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, please,” Nicky whispers, fist twisted into Joe’s shirt, embarrassingly close to pressing his palm over Joe’s to force him to press harder against his erection, still rubbing steadily up and down, up and down.

“Good boy,” Joe tells him, shifting closer to hold him down, knowing the way those words will make his hips jerk. “That’s what did it in my dream, you know. Before I could even get inside you, I wanted to tell you how good you were for me, waiting so patiently, so hard you were crying, needed me to fuck you. I called you my good, patient boy, and you came just like that, didn’t even need me to touch you, sweetheart, so perfect, all mine, so desperate and needy just to hear me call you _good_ -”

 _“Yusuf,”_ Nicky gasps, and the bed creaks, mattress bouncing them just a little with the way Nicky’s thrusting up into Joe’s hand, cock pulsing wet and so delicious, orgasm wringing through him warm and searing.

Joe doesn’t stop touching until he’s trembling, a high little sound coming out of his throat with the overstimulation, and then they’re kissing, and Nicky’s gone boneless, licking and kissing into Joe’s mouth lazy and satisfied even as Joe moans and nips at him.

Joe is grinding against his thigh, has to pull away and press his face into Nicky’s shoulder when it gets too much, whimpers when Nicky strokes a hand through his hair.

“Oh, Yusuf. My love,” he breathes, eyelids heavy. Swears he feels more in love with this man everyday, even still. “I owe you a blow job, and you’re going to get it. But first I’d like to tell you about _my_ dream.”

*

Nile scoffs a little, sipping her coffee. She’s just watched Joe slide up behind Nicky at the sink to squeeze his waist, kiss his cheek and murmur close to his ear until Nicky turned pink and apparently agreed to let him be on drying duty, even though he’d rejected both Andy and Nile’s offers minutes before, insisting they relax, have their coffee and dessert. Now the two of them are talking quietly in a language she doesn’t know the name of yet, smiling at each other. Nicky’s grinning like he can’t help it, which is always a marvel to see, because Nile is pretty sure he only ever smiles like that when reunited with Andy after too long away, when somebody beats him while sparring (Nile has managed this exactly twice so far, but never with swords), or whenever Joe gives him attention, which he usually isn’t so inclined to do in front of other people. Not in front of Nile, at least.

Andy makes a face at her.

“Why the attitude, kid?”

It’s protective, cooler than Andy usually is with her. She realizes Andy is thinking of Booker, and the coffee in her mug sloshes up dangerously near the rim because she sets it down so fast. She really hopes _that_ isn’t why Joe and Nicky are so distant in front of her.

“Nothing like that, come on. Just, if I knew all it takes to get Nicky to bend is to say nice things to him, I wouldn’t have spent last week reading lame-ass philosophy books from three hundred years ago. I don’t care what he and his PhDs say, there are better ways to learn a language in this century.”

Andy raises an eyebrow, reaching out her fork to steal a bite of Nile’s slice of coffee cake, Nicky’s secret recipe.

“You’d still have been reading lame-ass philosophy, kid. You should have asked Joe to teach you. He’s obsessed with Duolinguo.” She sighs, apparently not as shocked as Nile at the sight of Nicky throwing his head back and _snorting_ , Joe watching him with rapt, bright eyes, grinning. “Besides, the praise thing only works from Joe. I tried it for years. He barely notices from anybody else.”

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on tumblr @ dearpatroclus


End file.
